


An American Dream

by Missy



Category: Army of Darkness (1992), Evil Dead (Movies), Evil Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Communication Failure, Coping, Drama, F/M, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Nonverbal Communication, Parenthood, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5130920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's always worrying her this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An American Dream

The waiting is part of the deal she made to come with him to this magical present world, but that doesn’t mean her heart doesn’t leap into her throat every time an ambulance speeds by or the mailman knocks. It is twice as bad with a child at her breast, but somehow she manages to make life a game for him, turn the scares into a game.

Tonight seems the longest, the deepest black, and she paces and curses and stares at the clock. By the time his headlights fishtail into the driveway she’s ready to beat him senseless with the hallway phone.

The door slams open. He is torn and bloody but alive. “Ye did not answer at the store…”

He doesn’t even greet her as he storms past and into the nursery.

She finds him over the child’s crib. He checks to make sure their son still draws breath. Double-checks him for signs of bites. His flesh is unmarked, his breathing regular – she knows, she checked not ten minutes before. 

From her vantage point, she sees her husband’s shoulders stoop, his features relax. Then his eyes. 

“Would ye like a bath?” She never knows how to approach him when he’s like this.

“Yeah.” He leaves the child’s bedside slowly. 

And a red handprint on the rails of the crib.

*** 

He is different every time this happens. Sometimes he is mute and unreachable, stone-faced and sitting on the couch; sometimes the only way he can communicate with her is through sex. Sometimes he is dizzy with victory, loud and bragging, lifting her up from the floor and spinning her around in the dim kitchen light.

Today he’s wincing with the pain of whatever he’s been through. She washes the blood out of his hair carefully, gently. Only some of it’s his this time – there’s a cut, flowing bright red, right near his hairline. He grumbles a curse under his breath when she applies alcohol. 

He staunches quickly. He always has.

She washes her hands and finds him on the couch, staring at the remote. Sitting beside him, she keeps a comfortable distance. 

“There was a baby,” he says suddenly. “It’s easier when they’re kids – when they’re kids they talk in fucked up voices, or they kick me in the balls. Makes ‘em less human, easier to kill. But a goddamned baby…” His eyes flick back up the hall, toward their son’s room. “It’s not as easy as it used to be.”

She wells up. “Oh, Ashley…”

He hates it when she pities him. “I’m all right.” He lies down then, his head in her lap, and her fingertips rest gently over his heart.

“This ain’t the American dream, is it?”

She shakes her head, runs her fingers over the scar marring his chin. “You are better than a dream.”

She means ‘it’ll be all right.’

She means ‘I love you’.

She means ‘We’ll be fine.’

She only knows that he understands when he takes her hand in his metal one.


End file.
